


Waiting for Familiar Resolve

by hilarycantdraw



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M, Post-5x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilarycantdraw/pseuds/hilarycantdraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of Brian and Justin's relationship, set a year and a half post-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for Familiar Resolve

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Death Cab for Cutie's "Expo '86"

Justin laid back on his bed. Actually, it was a futon, but it doubled as his bed and it wasn’t that uncomfortable. Brian would be horrified if he saw it. But Brian hadn’t seen Justin’s new studio/apartment because it had been eight months since Brian had been to New York for New Year’s and another four months since they’d even seen each other in person, when Justin had visited Pittsburgh for Easter. But they talked to each other on the phone almost every day. Justin telling stories about his attempts to conquer the art world, Brian providing anecdotes about everyone from home, if it was still home, Justin wasn’t sure anymore. It wasn’t any different than the weekly conversations that Justin had with his mother or Daphne.

It had been six weeks since Brian had even tried to initiate phone sex and without seeing him, without the physical element that had made up at least half their relationship, Justin had no idea where they stood. A year and a half ago they had been making wedding plans and now they were living completely separate lives. Getting Brian to have a serious conversation in person was always hard enough, but over the phone it was impossible. Anytime Justin mentioned anything to do with them Brian suddenly had a meeting he was late for, or a client who was calling, or he was just walking into the diner. Justin had considered just fucking flying to Pittsburgh and tying Brian to his headboard until they’d had an actual conversation about their relationship, which would be followed by something kinkier- it was possible that Justin had imagined this scenario more than once. But Justin was scraping by eating boxed macaroni and cheese with ketchup (because that definitely counted as a vegetable) five nights a week and he’d have to go hungry for, like, six months to afford a plane ticket.

He’d been trying not to think too hard about this. It was him and Brian, the next time they saw each other (which would likely be Thanksgiving at this rate, he knew his mother would send him a ticket to visit, despite any protest from him) they’d pick up where the’d left off, as though they’d never been apart. Probably. That’s what Justin told himself.

Repressing his feelings had been working out really well. But then Michael had called.

Michael calling wasn’t out of the ordinary. They were still putting out issues of Rage, albeit at a slower pace. A lot of that was done over email, but Michael still liked to hash out ideas over the phone. It had been a typical call for them, an hour or so that had been eighty percent Michael rambling and twenty percent actual conversing.

And then Michael, who should really just have his foot surgically attached to his mouth by now, had asked, “So, are you seeing anyone?”

Justin had paused, blinked, and eloquently replied, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Michael, not seeming to notice anything off in Justin’s tone, had said, “I asked if you’re seeing anyone. You know, in New York. You’ve been there for a while now.”

And Justin had said, “Yeah, actually I am seeing someone. He’s tall, hot, brooding, brilliant. Likes designer suits and fucking men. Owns his own advertising agency. Actually, I think you might know him!” Justin had raised his voice with false excitement, “Brian Kinney. Does that ring any bells for you?”

“Oh,” Michael had actually sounded surprised. “I didn’t realize you two were still, well, together.”

“Did he say we’re not together?” And maybe Justin had sounded a bit like a gossipping thirteen-year-old, but what the fuck?

“No, he didn’t.” Michael had backpedalled quickly, Justin had heard it in the tone of his voice.

And before Justin had been able to stop himself, he’d asked, “Does he ever talk about me?”

“Well, you know Brian, he doesn’t really talk about anything.” Michael had forced a laugh and said, “I’ll email you that plot outline, okay? I’ve gotta go, Ben’s almost done dinner. Talk to you later.” He’d hung up before Justin had gotten out a goodbye, or pointed out that it was almost nine at night and the Novotny-Bruckner household was on a strict six-thirty-every-night dinner schedule. Had Michael forgotten that Justin had fucking lived with them?

And now Justin was looking for patterns in the water marks on the ceiling while one of the futon’s slats was putting a permanent dent in his ass. There was a brown stain in the far right corner of the room, above the sink in the galley kitchen, that was shaped kind of like Jesus if he stared at it long enough and tilted his head to the left with his eyes squinting. He’d never used any religious iconography in his art, but maybe he could make that his next painting. There had to be some sort of irony in showing Jesus watching over a shitty apartment whose only tenant was a gay man (and possibly some rats, but Justin had yet to actually see one, just heard the scratching at night).

There was also the distinct possibility of him sweating to death because it was late August and his shitty AC unit was broken. Justin wondered if it was possible for a person to melt. He pictured his flesh melting away, seeping through the thin mattress, puddling on the floor below until it dripped through the ceiling into the apartment below. Shuddering, he considered the fact that maybe he should’ve kept going to that therapist his mom had brought him to during high school.

He really should get up and work on the paintings he had started earlier that week. The ArtForum article definitely hadn’t handed him a key to the New York art scene on a silver platter, but it had cracked open a few doors. A small, but well-respected, gallery had offered him five spots in an upcoming group showcase and if it went well it might lead to a solo exhibition down the road. Then he might get enough commissions to finally quit his job at Starbucks. If he never saw a fucking latte again, he’d die a happy man. When his coworkers had found out he was a painter they’d convinced him to try latte foam art. It had been fun at first, but now all the regular customers just expected it and they didn’t even tip him extra. Cheapskates. And he could never get the smell of burnt coffee out of his nose. Even in his dreams, he could smell burnt fucking coffee. That was, when he slept deeply enough to actually have dreams.

What Justin wanted to do was sleep for a solid week, but insomnia had hit him hard recently. The ugly ceiling had become a familiar landscape to him. He was drained. Between the painting and the lattes and Rage, he barely had time to breathe. Maybe he just needed some help sleeping. He’d always slept so soundly when Brian was next to him. Their combined warmth under the covers, Brian’s slight wheeze of a snore, the fucking that came beforehand, he craved that. A year and a half in New York, plus several Brian-less periods before that, and he still hadn’t gotten used to sleeping alone.

But there was a half-empty bottle of cheap scotch sitting on his counter, so Justin decided to use the patented Brian Kinney method of feelings avoidance: getting so wasted you forgot you had feelings at all. Although, Brian would never have deigned to drink Johnny Walker Red. No, it was Blue Label or nothing.

After testing his (apparently nonexistent) telekinetic powers by staring at the bottle for a solid five minutes, Justin pulled himself up off the futon and grabbed the bottle, not bothering with a glass since he didn’t actually own one. He had a coffee mug, but drinking whisky from a coffee mug somehow seemed even more pathetic than drinking straight from the bottle.

On the upside, maybe the alcohol would help him sleep.

* * *

When Brian arrived home, he felt so tired that he could feel it inside of his bones and he wanted nothing more than to spend the weekend sleeping. He’d just collapsed on his bed when the phone rang, tossing shrill echoing tones throughout the loft, but he made no move to answer it. It was nearly eleven on a Friday night, whoever was calling would just assume he was out drinking or fucking or some combination of the two. No one would guess that he was actually home alone, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. Plus, none of his friends would be calling this late. They were all probably asleep by now, like the respectable adults they’d turned into, with their boyfriends and husbands and children. At some point he’d started to feel something that wasn’t disgust when he thought about that type of domesticity, but he certainly wasn’t going to dig further into whatever that meant.

Instead, he opened the bottle of whiskey he’d grabbed on his way to bed, because apparently that was who Brian Kinney was now. The type of man who drank alone, in bed, on a Friday night.

The phone finally stopped ringing and Brian’s own voice bounced off the ceiling of the loft, compelling the caller to leave a message.

“Brian…” A familiar voice slurred over the slight static of the answering machine. “Brian, you didn’t answer your cell either,” Justin said before sighing deeply. “The reason you have a cell phone is to fucking keep it on you at all times and answer the damn thing, remember? You said that.”

Brian nodded slightly, he had said that. When Justin got really into a painting, he tended to ignore his phone. It wasn’t as if that worried Brian. But what if he needed to talk about something important?

“I have something important to tell you.” Justin somehow added an extra syllable to “important” and Brian considered answering, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. So he closed his eyes and listened instead.

“I don’t need you.” Justin sounded indignant and Brian’s heart began to feel like a block of lead sinking through his chest as he took a gulp of whiskey.

“You’re right that the concept of needing other people is bullshit. It’s been months since we’ve been together, physically, and I’m still breathing. I assume you are too, since you were yesterday when we talked during lunch. We have sufficiently proven that we can function as individuals.” He only stumbled over a couple words during that pronouncement and there was a faint note of pride in his voice.

Brian almost smiled, Justin had always liked to rant when he was drinking.

“But I want to be with you anyway. As a choice, not a necessity. And I don’t want Michael asking if I’m seeing anyone. I’m still seeing you. At least, I think. Fuck, I love you Brian. So fucking talk to me, you asshole. About real things. Not shit you’d tell Ted over breakfast. Okay?” Justin paused, took a deep breath, and said, “And if you- if you changed your mind about me, about us, I-” his breathing hitched, “I wouldn’t blame you.”

A long moment of soft buzzing emanated from the answering machine and Brian wondered if Justin was too drunk to remember to hang up the phone until a whispered, “I miss you,” floated through the loft, followed by complete silence.

Brian put the bottle on his bedside table next to his cell phone, which he picked up. Justin answered on the first ring, his greeting somewhere between hopeful and nervous.

Brian said, “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Good,” Justin said. Brian was sure that he was smiling that famous sunshine grin of his.

Brian decided this probably wasn’t the best time to have any real discussion about their relationship, that should wait until they were both sober and fully awake. So he said, “Later,” and hung up. Putting his phone back on the table, he rolled over. The bed suddenly didn’t feel as cavernously empty as it had been lately. He fell asleep with a slight smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to leave this as a one shot for the time being, since it's been six months and I've totally lost steam for where I was going with this story. I'll likely post other one shots in the future, but I'm leaving this for now.


End file.
